


the ihop in us all

by 01nm



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Fantastic Four, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Autistic Peter, Humor, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Other, deadpool is twitterpated, fannypacks and mending relationships, peter is... getting there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-07-22 23:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7458627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/01nm/pseuds/01nm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spider-Man acquires Deadpool's number, knowing that he would most likely never use it</p><p>...and then he accidentally texts them after a strange dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the reunion

**Author's Note:**

> if anybody's like 'hey where did the chapters 2/3 go, why is it only chapters 2/2 now' it's because idk if i'll ever post ch3 so it stands complete as of now, sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes texting-based communication and a jump from past tense to present tense via Peter's stupid awkward panic-filled flashback that conveniently spells out a coherent story for you. Wowzers.
> 
> Edit: I changed my mind tell me if there are typos.

 

When Spider-Man was inducted into The Avengers team as an 'Honorary Member', secret identity intact, cool new phone, and a lot of back up to his arachnid name while on call as well, he was told that he would have to get other people's numbers on his own. Why his phone didn't already come with those numbers had something to do with 'whether or not they actually want you to know their number.'

 

Which was, y'know, understandable; some members had their identities out and proud to the public, and had their personal phones instead of SHIELD issued ones. Which was also totally unsurprising - Peter had a hard time trusting the sleek tech, too. He ended up camping out near the Avenger's Tower and pulling the thing apart then putting it back together again and again. Fortunately (unfortunately?), there was nothing to suggest a farce. No tracers, trackers, recording devices, those weird things that periodically take pictures of whatever your camera is pointed at - nothing to suggest he was being duped 'for the greater good.'

 

So, several days later, when he was called in for a 'meeting', he had no problem answering that call with his new cellphone. He had to manually save the number that was called from, and even then, the contact name ended up being a tentative 'SHIELD??' since he had no idea who they were and/or if they would be calling again from the same number.

 

As per usual, SHIELD was _obviously_ well put together when dealing with their non-human members. Obviously.

 

When Spider-Man got there, it was to what appeared to be an... event. People were gathered in small circles, some standing alone off to the side. Most of them he didn't recognize, but a few he did, namely The Avengers main team themselves and a couple of X-Men that he'd been in contact with before.

 

"Kid."

 

"Hey Logan." Peter crawled down the wall from where he had slipped in through one of the windows. JARVIS always was quite the gentleman - leaving pertinent windows pointedly unguarded so that Spider-Man didn't have to brave the streets below. "How many times do I have to remind you that I'm too old to be called 'kid'?"

 

Logan only shrugged obtusely. "As long as you keep lookin' like a kid, I'll keep callin' you a kid, kid."

 

Peter pushed air out from between his teeth in a huff before he landed on the floor and stood amiably next to the mutant. "I've always been and probably always will be taller than you, spartacus. What gives?"

 

Their soft collision continued as it usually found itself to - through several winding and calm routes that always seemed to lead back to harmless teasing, sometimes even to an interesting and deep conversation.

 

Once again, however, Peter found himself intimidated out of actually asking 'so what's going on here' from a man who was, undeniably and at the very least, six inches shorter than himself. Go figure.

 

Their conversation somehow walked itself into the realms of camping, something that Peter had never done, and he couldn't hold back from eagerly asking questions about what the experience was like. Unfortunately, the topic was abated by the appearance of Ms. Marvel and the subsequent disappearance of a grumpy old man like Logan.

 

"Yo, Spidey!" The masked hero bounced up towards him, dark hair loose and equally as lively in free movement. "Can I get yo' _nuumbah?"_

 

"Oh, um..." Peter tried not to let the sudden camaraderie catch him off guard, forcefully stilling his hand from rubbing at the sides of his head and straightening his back from the hunch it wanted to adopt. He wasn't a nervous teenager anymore - he's been doing this for at least ten years now. "I- sure. Why, though? Uh, I mean..." Keep it together, Parker. "Why now?"

 

"Didn't they tell you?" Ms. Marvel motioned with her entire body to the room, as she was prone to doing. Her bright white teeth were stark against her browned skin. "That's what this whole meet-up thing is about - getting numbers and making contact and all that jazz!"

 

Peter momentarily ignored the frankly blinding mien of the spry teenage hero and carefully gazed about the room. True to her point, the small groups of people seemed to shift and open so that new people could constantly join and leave. It looked like Spider-Man, Wolverine, and now Ms. Marvel were some of the lonely outliers who weren't making the same kind of contact as everyone else.

 

"I think Fury or somebody gets off on not telling me what's going on, and has fun making me figure it out for myself," Spider-Man admitted, belatedly wondering if he can say something like 'get off' to a minor. "So - number? Let's go with numbers and forget what I just said, okay?"

 

Ms. Marvel laughed at him - she does that a lot, as he's noticed - and they traded phones, deciding that putting in their own contact names would be a funny surprise for the other.

 

The Desi girl handed his phone back to him, to which he discovered that her contact name was 'MS. MARVEL' with several asterisks in place of stars surrounding it. It was appropriately adorable.

 

The teenage hero was ultimately distracted by Nova, and bid Spider-Man goodbye in favor of catching up with her other friends in a relaxed and safe environment that was specifically fit for heroes and their precarious relationships.

 

Peter somehow found himself alone in the room, despite it being an entire floor full of supers, mutants, and mutates, all gathered in the Manhattan borough for apparently one thing only - mingling.

 

He had to keep himself from outwardly giggling at the prospect. Who'd have thought that the surefire way to rounding up the most powerful mish mash of people in the world would be some billionare's tower in an American city, free cellphones, and seemingly unlimited food.

 

In the wrong hands, this would be dangerous information. Or, maybe he should say, in the _right_ hands it would be dangerous.

 

...He had to stifle another happy noise at imagining someone like Loki tricking The Avengers via the diabolical plan of a Mario Kart slash tea party.

 

"Reminiscing about the good old days when everybody hated each other and couldn't stand to stay in the same room for more than five minutes without a _civil war_ breaking out?"

 

Startled by the voice interrupting his whorl of thoughts, Peter smoothed the arching back of his uneasy spider sense down and turned to meet them.

 

"Deadpool," Spider-Man said, voice as neutral as possible. "Fancy... seeing you here." Nailed it.

 

The ex-mercenary took that as a cue to step closer, standing in front of Peter instead of somewhere to the side. Peter's senses couldn't decide whether that was an okay thing or not.

 

"What; didn't expect them to call me in, too?" They made a choked-off grunt in their throat, lowering their voice slightly, but not necessarily dangerously. "I'm tickled pink, Webs."

 

Spider-Man and Deadpool... had a rocky relationship... but who didn't in this sort of lifestyle?

 

They first met in a hasty team-up when Peter was still just a spitfire teen fresh out of the hell that was highschool, burdened with both the tragedies of the night life and the hardships of the day life. Everything had seemed to be against Peter in a violent strife, throwing his precariously waking moments into uncertain doom perpetuated by aching tiredness and fluctuating mental states.

 

He's talking about college. College was plumb awful.

 

Anyway - they stopped some tyrannical, geneticist drug lord, hesitantly decided to hang out a few times on some nondescript rooftops, got into a couple emotionally fueled arguments that stemmed directly from the chaotic balance of the world around them, and landed themselves one too many times in the 'dangerous, volatile vigilante' category. Which Spider-Man still strictly blamed Deadpool for, unrepentantly.

 

Granted, their... _everything_ , wasn't as dramatic as whatever happened with The Avengers and The X-Men, but it was still pretty out there when it came to two masked mutates.

 

"Truthfully?" Spider-Man intoned, folding his hands in front of his body. It's not a subconsciously defensive move. It's not. "No. No I didn't."

 

There's was a lengthy, tense pause in which Peter finally gave in to his nerves and hunched over, fingers petting at the ribbed sides of his suit without his express mental permission. It did little to take away from the intensity of the white-eyed stare Deadpool was giving him.

 

Thankfully, the paper thin wall of heavy silence was punched in the gut and keelhauled when Deadpool's mouth exploded into action, "I know, right? I didn't think so either. I mean, _hello!?_ I used to leave _dead bodies_ all over the place like it was fucking _quoll_ mating season. And they _still_ didn't give me the time of day! Who'da thunk it."

 

Peter sagged - looked like he was in the clear, if Deadpool's childish gossiping demeanor was anything to go by. Actually being in hot water with the red-suited man was hell on earth, and he wasn't keen on repeating anything like it.

 

"Wait - you did _what."_ The whole 'trail of corpses' thing wasn't new to Peter, but he still felt a certain amount of 'I am responsible for this person whether anyone expects me to be or not' that he just couldn't seem to squash. Old habits and all.

 

"Whoopsie; did I say that out loud?" A snort, followed by something said under the breath, _"My bad."_

 

Peter didn't even bother hiding a familiar feeling eye roll due to the presence of the mask, falling right back into the swing of... well, _Deadpool,_ just as easily as he swung from building to building every night.

 

It almost made him forget why he ever steadfastly decided to avoid the other person.

 

Until, y'know, Deadpool started pilfering one of the three snack tables set up.

 

"What are you doing?" Peter asked mildly. He could feel the way that several people began to stare, and he knew by experience that Deadpool could also feel this public scrutiny.

 

"For realz? You're asking me what _I'm_ doing?" Deadpool punctuated their incredulous point by lifting three thick slices of supreme top pizza in one hand, hooking a thumb at their chest and scoffing. "I am going to shove at _least_ three of every kind of pizza and whatzit here in my mouth tonight. Whatever _beef_ you have," at this, they pointedly plopped a sausage onto their fancy glass plate that was liable to be broken or stolen before the night was up, "with this food can wait. Because this hungry, hungry hippo _cannot."_

 

Peter didn't even bother to correct Deadpool's usage of beef on something that was most likely pork. "Never trust SHIELD with food."

 

"Huh," Deadpool remarked, temporarily halting their stacking of meatstuffs. "I did say that once upon a time, didn't I?" Then they proceeded to shove their mask up to their nose and chomp down on a folded pizza slice of undecipherable toppings.

 

Peter honestly should not be surprised. And he wasn't. Though he did wonder where Deadpool got the confidence to partially unmask, scarred and irritated skin on show, in front of so many people. He decided not to dwell on it.

 

"'Cept this is _community SHIELD,_ right here. It's _watered down,"_ Deadpool emphasized, still noshing comfortably on their mouthful. "Like how the coffee in every break room is watered down. And it's generally expected to have something... _questionable,_ added in."

 

Taking the hint, Peter slid his eyes surreptitiously around the room. A couple of gazes slid over him right back, tickling his senses unpleasantly, but underwhelmingly familiarly.

 

"Never trust SHIELD with food," Spider-Man parroted back instead of the 'I see your point' that he wanted to voice. It'd do no good to give away their hidden communication so gregariously.

 

You could never trust SHIELD with anything, anyway.

 

The two ended up roundly herding each other into a more private corner, Peter taking to hanging upside down from the near ceiling and covertly pressure stimming as they conversed.

 

Some time passed like this, playing catch up - delicately and politely on Spider-Man's end, brashly and enthusiastically on Deadpool's. Though, if the spades of people slowly trickling out the door (or window) was anything to go by, the whole sprawling and inelegant conversation must have happened over the span of a few hours.

 

Eventually, Peter found himself having to do that socially awkward thing where you slowly edge your way to the exit, dropping hints about ending the meeting and going on your way. Not that that had ever actually _worked_ on Deadpool - Peter blamed how out of touch he was with the ex-merc for his lousy attempt at it.

 

Finally, after Peter had made it nearly the entire trek across the room to his window, he'd been given a promising opportunity to ollie out as primly and non-socially-threatening as possible.

 

"Say," Deadpool began as if they hadn't been talking nearly non-stop for the past _three hours._ "You wouldn't happen to have one of those _new spangled cellular devices,_ now would ya'?"

 

After carefully shifting (read: fumbling) through his options, Peter opted for simply retrieving his aforementioned phone from an unseen pocket and holding it out. "You want to... exchange numbers?"

 

There was a moment which Peter could distinctly remember Deadpool not breathing before the red-and-black suited person hissed out a barely contained _"Fffff_ uck yes," and swiped Spider-Man's phone from his hands, tossing their own non-SHIELD phone in response as they gleefully went about adding their contact info.

 

Peter didn't even flinch at the toss, nor did he have any trouble catching it, but he was still slightly miffed at being treated like the object bin to a cranky security line goer at an airport.

 

He inserted a fairly standard and expected name: 'Spider-Man'. He didn't have any other insight as to how to act with Deadpool on such a personal level, so he decided on the bare minimum of bleak friendship. If at all.

 

Getting his phone back from the physically vibrating ex-merc, Peter pretended to not notice that way Deadpool immediately went hunting for what name he put in. He also ignored the itching want to do the same - who knows what sort of wacky, inane string of letters and symbols Deadpool could have used to spell out their name. He was sort of looking forward to it.

 

But, that had to wait until he was somewhere private. He crawled out the last open window without a proper goodbye, citing old habits again with a twinge of guilt as he webbed his way downtown.

 

* * *

 

 

...Which was exactly the past event that Peter is blaming as for the reason why he is in this current... predicament.

 

_Sent at 3:53 a.m._

**Spider-Man**

omg i just had the weirdest dream

i have to tell you about this dream

do you mind if i ramble for like the next fiveto ten minutes?

if youre not awake rn you can just see it in the morning

that or turn your phone off if you are awake and dont wanna see it

_..._

_..._

_..._

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey  
**

i'm down

_Sent at 4:00 a.m._

 

Peter most certainly had not meant to text "CoolPool", AKA _mother-hugging Deadpool._

 

Hence; this thoughtless dilemma that impedes him.

 

He had just spent the past few moments of indeterminable time having a very inconvenient flashback to the moment that he now blames for how this all started, including a small yelling session in his head in which he points fingers, mostly at himself, asking whether or not giving his number out to so many people ( _especially Deadpool_ ) was a good idea.

 

Ultimately, what is screaming loudest is the fact that he, apparently, cannot leave this text conversation hanging. Despite it being somewhere around four in the morning, he "has no good excuse" to use in order to easily and guilelessly blow Deadpool off and hunt down who he was _really_ trying to text: a certain troublemaker named Mary-Jane who had been hailing him at odd hours with even odder topics. Namely, whatever weird dream she remembered having the previous night.

 

All the way in Paris, and the lively model is still managing to upend him.

 

Physically shaking his head and shifting about on the mussed blankets of his bed, Peter steels himself for the conversation ahead.

 

...Then he can't help but cringe and let out of a long-suffering sigh. Deadpool would've been obnoxiously cheering him on had they heard the bout of rhyming his tired mind just spat out.

 

What's even worse is that the dream had Deadpool in it. Unsurprisingly, they only showed up at the absolute strangest part.

 

_Sent at 4:06 a.m._

**Spider-Man**

okay so

it started pretty normal

for, yknow

somebody like me

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

ten bucks you were saving the day

_..._

**Spider-Man**

yes i was 'saving the day'

but it was more complicated than that

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

goooooooaaaaaaaal

**Spider-Man**

im not paying you

anyway

we were at ihop

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

we????

as in you and me???????

**Spider-Man**

yes, as in you and me

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

()()()()()()()()() wow

dream come fcking true

hope there is some, btw

**Spider-Man**

ignoring that

and what are those things?

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

what the what

**Spider-Man**

()()() what does that mean

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

oh wow your shitty shield phone doesn't have emojis

LAME

i guess these are the only ones that work

 **♥** **♥** **♥** **♥** **♥**

i wonder if shield people sext on the job regularly

can you fcking imagine the underground corporate uprising to get the heart emoji authorized

but no other emoji

tragic

**Spider-Man**

ANYWAY

we waited for like half an hour for these really rare special order strawberry covered waffles

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

talk dirty to me

**Spider-Man**

we bought three for some reason, but dream me wasnt questioning it

and it had just gotten to our table

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

we were sharing a table and everything

are you sure this wasn't secretly my dream

webs have you been astral projecting without good old pool tagging along

**Spider-Man**

except there was something wrong going on outside

and i just knew that i had to go fix it

but when i got up you asked me 'where are you going'

and i told you 'to go see whats going on outside'

'okay but what about these waffles'

'the waffles arent important enough'

'but you do want them right'

'yea but theyre not important'

and then you got this really epic voice and said 'but they are to me'

and then you stood up and had a fanny pack

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

a fanny pack

**Spider-Man**

a fanny pack

you shoved the waffles into the fanny pack

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

isn't that a crime???

**Spider-Man**

?

no

not in a dream it isnt

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

what the hell

nothing else is important

**♥**

how do you even remember that dream

and what you and dreampool said

**Spider-Man**

well

it was an approximation

not exact

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

oh boy

"an approximation"

**Spider-Man**

was that a joke

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

most of the time i can't even remember when or where i last slept

you lucky dog you, having vivid dreams about your fav deadpal

**Spider-Man**

oh

is that why youre awake rn

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

100% insomniac, bby

my hand just warped through the floor

awesome

**Spider-Man**

maybe we should go to sleep

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

me & you????

yes

**Spider-Man**

seriously, go to bed

_Sent at 4:14 a.m._

 

Peter shuffles around in his bed, depositing his phone onto the table nearby before sighing and plopping his head back onto the pillow. His eyes still flux and burst with lights and colors from avidly staring at his phone for so long, but he tries to let the sleepy darkness pull him down to the best of its abilities anyway.

 

This is all painfully interrupted by the loud vibration of his phone in the silence of the room. He groans tiredly and flops his arm up and over until he's grappling with the device, peeved once more with the mere existence of _Deadpool._

 

_Sent at 4:20 a.m._

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

420

_..._

i really want waffles now

**Spider-Man**

i really wish i had waffles too

but now its time for sleep

_Sent at 4:22 a.m._

 

Once again, Peter sighs and puts his phone back on the table, hunkering down in between the sheets and making a nice, cozy nest with them. He periodically rubs his feet back and forth, a tired repetitive motion that he doesn't mind giving in to, comforted by it.

 

...And then his phone vibrates.

 

Irritated, Peter huffs out an angry noise as he once again retrieves his phone that is now an offensive item of an ongoing war.

 

_Sent at 4:29 a.m._

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

as you wish

**Spider-Man**

i dont want to know what that means

please go to bed

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

()

**Spider-Man**

whatever that is i cant see it

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

it's there in spirit

()()

**Spider-Man**

deadpool

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

you spelled "babe" wrong

**Spider-Man**

deadpool

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

nononon, shshsh

i haven't gotten to rial you up for a while now

let me have this

**Spider-Man**

deadpool

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

()()()()()

()()

()()()

()()()()()()()()()

()()

()()

()()()()

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

()()()()()()()

()()

 

Peter forcefully stops himself from grinding his teeth as he throws his head back onto the mattress, valiantly attempting to ignore the near constant vibrating of his phone.

 

He has no idea how to get Deadpool to give up and go to sleep. Ignoring them has never worked - the device in his hands is still constantly lighting up with new texts. He can't just turn it off and be done with in until morning, either, as it's acting as his alarm clock. Not even silence will work.

 

Peter lifts the phone back up towards his face and squints helplessly at the onslaught.

 

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

()()()

()()()()()()()()

im painting the prettiest picture and you can't even see it

don't worry webs, i'll show it to you later

on my REAL PHONE

()()()()()()()()()()

**Spider-Man**

deadpool

please go to sleep

**♥CoolPool♥(Your Future Bae)#HiSpidey**

()

**Spider-Man**

**♥**

_..._

_..._

_..._

_Sent at 4:41 a.m._

 

...Peter did not expect that to work.

 

When there are no more messages forthcoming, his room becoming blessedly silent and dark, something gives inside of him that allows his body to fully relax.

 

"Halle-frickin-lujah," Peter mumbles with a croaking voice, burrowing his way into his bed and steadfastly deciding to deal with whatever consequences that whole text-a-palooza may bring some other day.

 

* * *

 

 

It is, of course, just Peter Parker's luck when he's called in for an assist on a mission not but a mere afternoon later.

 

Even further - the SHIELD agent (?) calling him in decidedly hangs up without letting Peter get a word in edgewise, leaving him running blind on both what 'an assist' and 'a mission' constitutes as. That and who all is going to be on his team, assuming that he even has one.

 

With a bit more than just a pinch of cantankerousness, Peter slips his phone into his mysteriously placed spider suit pocket and is out the window of his apartment, swinging his way to the meet site, which just so happens to be an upper floor of The Avenger's building.

 

When he lands, his visage immediately seeks out the two closest people. Surprisingly, these appear to be Natasha Romanov and Clint Barton. Peter resists the urge to rub sweaty palms on his thighs like the inner pubescent teenager that he is.

 

"Your boyfriend is already here," Natasha tells him before he can open his mouth. Which, one: rude. Two: What?

 

"What?" Peter gets out with only a fraction of tact. "I don't - " He lets out a slightly frustrated breath in lieu of allowing his arms to flail around confusedly like they are wanting to, turning to Clint instead. "I thought she was, like, _above_ low-blows or, or something. What gives? Why _now?"_

 

The only reason he isn't bombarding them with questions is because he's been playing these exact same games since Deadpool first showed up and crashed into his life. He just never expected _Black Widow_ of all people to pick up the dice at any point. It was mostly people in passing, like Iron Man or some of Deadpool's "friends."

 

Can't have a chemically unbalanced and unsustainable relationship with anybody these days without someone else insinuating something more intimate. Harsh.

 

"Hey, she doesn't always have to pick the road less traveled," Clint voices absentmindedly, the archer fiddling with his mandatory mission hearing aids and finishing off an unaccounted for bagel.

 

"It's a character flaw of mine," Natasha faux admits, padding her way around Spider-Man as if she were barefoot and not in heavy combat boots. "Have you eaten yet?"

 

"...I'm not speaking to you," Peter mumbles a bit petulantly, ignoring the prospect of free food in order to turn around and go simmer in the farthest corner of the room or something equally childish. He'll just wait like that until whoever it is that's coming to debrief them arrives -

 

Except his plans are dashed when he collides with Deadpool. A Deadpool who was most certainly _not there_ two seconds ago, and most definitely _not that close._

 

"Oh, whoops, didn't see you - "

 

There's something... weird... on Deadpool's body. It's oblong and bulging and very strange, out of place, not usually there... So Peter does the smart, automatic thing and squishes it with his hand. It makes a crinkling noise.

 

Then Peter leaps away from Deadpool's body in a hurry, mortified on several different levels.

 

"Whatever that was I did _not_ mean to squeeze it, I promise," Peter tries to defend, holding his hands up and looking down to see what he just inappropriately grappled with. His logical mind stutters to a stop.

 

Deadpool is wearing a fanny pack. It is bright pink.

 

Deadpool is also laughing uproariously.

 

...Peter just cannot get a break, can he.

 

"Your first instinct when you feel something funny is to _squeeze it!?"_ Deadpool asks him incredulously, one hand trailing down their body in order to deftly tug the zipper on the fanny pack open. "Ohh, man, I knew there was I reason that I picked you."

 

"Picked me for wha- _Ooooh,_ my gosh." Peter removes his hands from his hips in order to lean forward excitedly and lightly pap his fingers together as a stand-in for outright flapping with excitement. "Are those- are those _waffles?"_

 

"Indeed," Deadpool comically intones, casually opening the airlock plastic bag and fishing out a paper wrapped waffle, holding it out to Spider-Man like they are offering an entire loaf of bread to a pond full of hellish geese.

 

Surprisingly, Deadpool says nothing further, not even commenting when Peter reverently and cautiously takes hold of the breakfast treat with both hands, one eye on the food and the other eye on the ex-merc.

 

Swallowing down a line of interrogation about the other person's possibly hidden intentions, instead Peter asks, "Have you got strawberry syrup in there?" If they do, then it will be quite the odd coincidence, considering the... _'conversation'_ , last night.

 

Deadpool chuckles freely, reaching inside the offensively bright pack at their stomach and pulling out several red-colored packets. "Oh, baby, do I ever." Then, lowly, "You know, you sure are making a lot of demands for someone who isn't my girlfriend."

 

 _"Hnng,"_ Peter gets out intelligently, ignoring that last line of verbalization as he nabs one and immediately begins spilling it all over the top of the waffle, which soon finds itself being shoved into his partially unmasked mouth.

 

"I'll take that as a 'thank you'," Deadpool says smugly, pretending to fan themself with the remaining packets.

 

"Did you make these?" Peter asks between bites. The perfectly fluffy texture, the softness of the insides, the warmth and flavor of sweetened bread... Oh, yes. These are _definitely_ Deadpool's waffles. "Oh my god- you _made_ these, didn't you."

 

 _"Hyuk hyuk,"_ Deadpool fake-laughs a bit obnoxiously, apparently deriving great joy simply from watching Peter devour the homemade waffles. "Yer' darn right I did, sweetpea. There's more in the _deadsack_ if you want 'em."

 

"Nothing else is important," Peter quotes with a groan, mentally taking Deadpool up on that numerous waffle offer. How can he _not?_

 

"I'm offended," Clint belatedly pipes up from his position observing these events some ways away, dry bagel forgotten in his hand. He's doing that thing where you stare at someone else's food, but don't want to verbally ask for it, so you just eat it with your eyes and hope they'll share.

 

"They're made for each other," Natasha tells him quietly and somewhat mysteriously, hidden meanings behind her words as she lifts a new bagel up to his face. "I made this one for you."

 

Clint completely bypasses the bagel. Deadpool gives Natasha a thumbs up that is everything but sneaky.

 

Peter doesn't really care. Peter is in waffle heaven right now, and is only accepting voice mails, or social cues not currently in his immediate vicinity.

 

Though, one thing is for sure; Peter's going to start texting Deadpool about all of his weird dreams from now on, a la MJ-style. He's fervently hoping that they all end in good things.

 

Like waffles. He's talking about waffles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i based this off of a real dream that i had recently about ihop, waffles, and shoving those waffles into a fannypack because the world was going to shit but we'd be damned if we weren't gonna take those fucking waffles with us, we waited like 15 minutes for those strawberry drenched things.
> 
> this deadpool has settled down somewhat. he's an avenger, he's got a stable life/job that doesn't involve mercenary work, and he doesn't constantly feel the need to get his emotional ego stroked via self and relationship-destructive means. this doesn't mean that he isn't mentally ill - he totes is, and he totes has memory problems and hallucinations/delusions out the wazoo, he's just in a better spot in his life. he likes it.
> 
> peter - 26/27, non-binary he/him bi nerd  
> wade - 39, agender they/them pan with a plan
> 
> p.s. i usually list these as 'other' in relationships because M/M doesn't really encompass peter's non-binary gender and wade's everything. sorry m8s - them's the breaks up in genderqueer land. hence why dp's pronouns are strictly they/them in this one and peter's are he/him. (even though i don't really remember how that happened, it just _did_ )


	2. the continuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That is no way to thank a man for making their honey some hart and healthy breakfast!” Wade admonishes, shuffling something around in the lightly sizzling pan placed over the stove. 
> 
> Peter’s eyes momentarily bug out of his head, his entire body freezing. “You didn’t actually put a heart in there, did you?”
> 
> Don’t ask why Peter’s suspicious of this scenario, specifically – he doesn’t have answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie - this was supposed to be a fully fleshed out sequel, but it ended up just being a mostly-written second chapter. I have a full outline for the other chapters, though, so they'll come in due time.
> 
> I've never had alcohol and I don't know how twitter works. New York City in its entirety baffles me. Spare the author, please.

 

Just like last time, it starts with a text.

 

Or; maybe Peter should consider it starting with the night _before_ the text.

 

“I have a SHIELD issued ID?” Peter questions incredulously even as Logan shoves into his chest what he assumes to be said piece of legal plastic. “Wh- what? What the hell? How does that even _work –”_

 

“Take a look, fella,” Logan tells Spider-Man as he shoulders his way past the flabbergasted vigilante. He’s regularly unhelpful like that.

 

“Uhh…” Peter gets out eloquently, eyes following his mutant friend as the older man walks into the bar, no harm no foul. Next, his vision travels down to the card he automatically caught from falling with his hands, flipping its white and glossy surface over to read the front.

 

Huh. It’s a picture of his masked face against a white wall (when did that happen? He blames Natasha), his age partnered with an approximate date of birth (thankfully only a month and year, the latter being wrong), and a couple of technical numbers and jargon.  Basically – your standard ID, only without the _actual identification_ part.

 

Looks like Spider-Man’s going drinking on his ‘unofficial birthday.’ And with an X-Man to boot.

 

Curious as to how this process will even work, Peter steps into the bar several moments after Logan, big white eyes scanning the establishment and catching a few interested stares as he does. He finds Wolverine sitting at the counter (where else) and makes his way over, somewhat subconscious of the way his body moves in the iconic red suit.

 

He may have had this self-imposed gig since he was fifteen, but it doesn’t make the scrutiny of being on the ground and not untouchable, flying in the air, any less unnerving to experience.

 

“How did you know it was around my birthday?” Peter gracelessly opens with, plopping onto a stool like one would normally sit, then shifting awkwardly for a few moments before giving up and instead letting his legs curl upwards into a semi-crouch. Awesome. Now he’s ready to launch like a frog at any given moment.

 

“You told me your age once,” Logan mutters around the rim of a very large mug of something dark and pungent and possibly a portal to another world with the way he’s looking soulfully into its depths. “Said you were only nineteen, and couldn’ drink yet. T’was the first time I tried to drag you out drinkin’.”

 

Oh. Oh, yea. That was a cold, confusing night to bond with Wolverine over monsters and morals. “You counted the years since then? That’s…” Oddly sweet of you. “…not a very productive way to spend your time.”

 

“It’s good for keepin’ track of other things,” Logan muses in that timeless yet ultimately confusing way of his, squinting one eye at the pictures lining the back of the bar wall like they would jump out and question his authority. “Why don’t you try orderin’ somethin’? I didn’t bring you in here to fuck spiders.”

 

Taking the subject change for what it is (he is _not_ prepared to think about just how long Logan’s been alive, or what ‘fucking spiders’ has to do with anything - though he is hoping that it isn’t a joke at his expense), Peter politely attempts to flag down the barkeep a few times before going silent and fiddling with his gloves. He may not be a truly disastrous teenager anymore, but just like his suit, he can still find the awkward in every part of life.

 

Eventually, Logan apparently gets fed up with his weak-willed efforts and gruffly orders something roughly called a ‘jacked up Pina Colada.’ Peter is, logically, filled with concern at the name, but accepts the large, complicated and colorful glass all the same.

 

“Uhh…” Peter hums as he shows his SHIELD ID to the barkeep, for a lack of better options to choose. He sure isn’t going to blatantly turn to Logan for help like a child; not in a _bar_ of all places.

 

Thankfully, the surprisingly plain barkeep barely gives him an eyebrow raise, takes one look at Logan’s infinitely downturned face, then nods.

 

Marvelous. Now, hopefully he won’t gag and make a mess on his first sip.

 

He fully expects this to be a disaster.

 

Don’t get him wrong – he’s had alcohol before. He’s twenty-seven and he went to college, so it’s kind of hard not to. However, he’s more of a ‘I have wine with my aunt every now and again’ sort of guy.

 

Lifting up his mask to the bridge of his nose and ignoring any impolite stares that may be pointed his way, Peter swallows nervously.

 

Basically: he’s a loser. And alcohol tastes gross no matter what anyone tries to tell him.

 

“Black rum,” Logan suddenly rumbles out, startling the stagnating spider. He apparently noticed Peter’s indecision, “Coconut rum, white rum, pineapple juice.” He takes a drag of his own brew. “I picked somethin’ fruity for you.”

 

“That’s…” Probably not going to help. “Considerate. Thank you.”

 

Wondering if it would be truly rude if he were to pinch his nose and down the whole thing in one go (he’s never been able to prove that he can ‘get drunk’ anyway, not that he’s ever tried too hard) Peter hesitantly lifts the salted corner and allows some of the nearly overflowing liquid to spill into his mouth.

 

…Tastes like coconut, pineapple, and something slightly bitter. Overall, not as overwhelming or awful like Peter was expecting.

 

“Huh,” he says for, like, the third time tonight. “Not bad.” Taking another sip, this time larger, he has to mentally confess that it’s better than just ‘not bad.’ It’s pretty darn good, actually.

 

Logan is looking at him with something that could possibly, conceivably, at an angle, in the right light, as the planets align, _maybe_ classify as a proud expression. It makes Peter smile twice as hard back and take a celebratory gulp of his (secretly delicious) drink.

 

( _#itsyospidey_ tweets that Pina Colada’s are a surprisingly nice drink for people who don’t like alcohol.

 

 _#nycdailybugle_ tags him in a news report about drunk driving and public indecency.)

 

He and Logan somehow begin talking about cars. Peter doesn’t know how to drive – he never learned, because he knows that he’ll never leave New York or be ‘rich’ enough (more like ‘out of the poverty mindset’ enough) to own a car. The older man admonishes him lightly, saying that he should always be prepared, but seems generally understanding of Peter’s life and choices.

 

Then they begin discussing motorbikes. Peter, again, doesn’t know how to drive one, and has never even been on one. The closest he’s gotten was that one time when an officer on a bike tried to literally run down Spider-Man while he was critically injured post-Carnage. He only managed to escape by tossing himself bodily into a full garbage truck and making a silent, secret, smelly getaway.

 

Logan tops that harrowing story by offering him a motor bike ride, but warning that he ought not to accept it because “strange things always happen to me while on bikes.”

 

“One time, I got struck by lightnin’,” Logan recites, quirking an eyebrow at the ceiling as if the conceivably existing natural electricity could hear him. “Not that it slowed me down any.”

 

“Oh, I bet it didn’t,” Peter chuckles stupidly, taking a happy drink from his third strong Pina Colada. The taste is still just as amazing, and he thinks he might be feeling a little loopy too. That or it turns out he really, really likes vehicle talk with a man probably five times his age.

 

Whoa; yikes. Not thinking about it.

 

Logan orders him a hard lemonade next, and then another right after a _hilarious_ conversation about some of the shenanigans the younger X-Men have gotten into over the past years (after Peter swore, without prompting, that he would never tell anybody else.)

 

…And then they get on the topic of Deadpool.

 

“Lord love a duck…” Peter automatically groans out, head finding his hand in a practiced motion. Logan’s raising an eyebrow at him, so he elaborates (stupidly), “He’s just, he’s so… I don’t wanna talk about him, he’s… He’s _Deadpool.”_ He snorts, his mind latching on. “What a chump. Stupid _Deadpool._ Never leaves me alone. Always gotta have the last _weird-_ I mean _word._ Pfft.” He takes an abnormally large swig of the hard lemonade and has to pretend not to gag on it. _“Wade Wilson,”_ he finishes with vitriol.

 

There’s a few moments of silence between them, to which Peter finishes off his hard lemonade and stares at the slightly powdery residue sitting at the bottom, all mixed with spit and harsh words and hidden feelings.

 

After a while, Peter begins to distantly wonder why Logan hasn’t done what has happened the last four times he finished his current drink – ordered him another. Just as he’s about to turn and ask if everything is okay, a large hand comes down to clap his shoulder in a hold.

 

“Bet’cha it’s time for you to head home, kid,” Logan tells him with an utterly blank face. “You said you have that ‘get along and leave’ party to go to tomorrow mornin’, right?”

 

Peter belatedly realizes that his mouth is sort of hanging open, but his jaw isn’t really wanting to hinge shut again so he just (somewhat clumsily) rolls his mask down to cover his face. “Oh, yea, that’s… That’s gonna happen. Th’nks for reminding me, Logan.”

 

Peter works – well, _worked_ part-time at a coffee shop when the bills of owning a small apartment (that was unsafe, unsanitary, and barely functioned as a living space, might he add) alone couldn’t be paid by only his Bugle and freelance photography payments. However, with this new ‘Honorary Avenger’ model, he’s been getting funds wired to a SHIELD account that he has access to via his SHIELD cellphone (so much SHIELD…) after every mission or assist he takes place in.

 

Needless to say, he can afford to drop one job, and has even moved into a new, (slightly) better apartment in a less populated corner of Manhattan (of all places) in order to be closer to the action without his identity being in constant peril.

 

…but when Peter tries to get up, turn around, and politely pay both of their cheques, he’s hit with a wave of vertigo that has him falling into Logan’s arms like a fainting maiden in an old black and white movie.

 

Whoa there.

 

“What’s goin’ on?” Peter asks the air in front of him, unable to turn his head to speak directly to the man supporting his body weight as he blinks funky star-shaped lights out of his eyes. He can’t see quite clearly. It’s reminding him of when he seriously needed heavy duty prescription glasses before the bite.

 

Well, he _still_ needs glasses. Just a different kind.

 

Damn the near-sightedness of a spider!

 

“You’re drunk, kid,” Logan replies gruffly, shouldering most of his weight.

 

“Whoa, _really!?”_ Peter exclaims with a giggle, genuinely excited. He can’t fight the urge to flap as Logan tries to lead him away from the bar and through the short distance to the door. “I must be less _in-ter-nally_ enhanced than I _prev- previ-_ than I thought before. Hey, wait!” Peter tries to halt their progress by grabbing at Logan’s barrel chest with agitation, “Wait! Don’t I- don’t we have to pay?”

 

“It’s on my tab,” Logan responds laconically.

 

“B-but,” Peter makes a noise in the back of his throat which would embarrass him if he had the mental function _to_ be embarrassed right now. “We need to, to tip the plain barkeep person? Right?” Well, he didn’t mean to let _that_ little opinion slip, but it’s too late now.

 

Logan looks down (Peter is slumped. The shorter man better live this little height difference up while it lasts), blinks a few times, then lets out a small breath full of emotion. “Fine.”

 

“You should- should get highlights!” Peter tells the barkeep with certainty, hands flapping excitedly against the glossy brown counter. “They’ll really bring out your eyes!”

 

He swears covertly (not at all) to Logan seconds later that “they totally thought about it! I hope I made their day! Night. Morning?”

 

After tipping, to which Peter revealed one of his secret pocket locations on his suit to the entire bar due to his lack of quiet finesse at the moment, the two make their way down a seemingly random sidewalk with Peter’s babbling to fill any silence.

 

“Shh, don’t tell nobody,” Peter gets real close to Logan’s face and faux-whispers. Logan is a _good bro_ and doesn’t lean away or curl their lip in disgust, “but I have- I sewed pockets near my web shooters, my neck, and at the small of my back. _Woo!_ Only flat stuff fits though,” Peter sighs into the chilly air. “The time that I tried- I fit a granola bar was, was a bad day to fight Venom.”

 

There’s no secrets between you and Venom, physically. Peter remembers being abjectly terrified of becoming swallowed into fathomless black fluid before he was utterly and stupidly distracted with how the granola bar at the small of his back was being annoyingly crushed into his spine.

 

Venom had no mental sway on him that day. Because of a _granola bar._ The symbiote crawled into some shadowy crevice with shame and didn’t reappear for at least a month.

 

“Oh, did I say all that out loud?” Peter wonders, once again _out loud,_ cocking his head at Logan. Apparently, Peter’s strange equilibrium can change and morph itself to fit whatever situation he’s found himself in, as he is no longer stumbling as much and Logan has delegated a full-on shoulder carry to just a friendly cradling of Peter’s ribs.

 

Eventually, however, Peter’s babbling simmers down to just the occasional comment on whatever pops into his head that somehow makes it past his brain-to-mouth filter.

 

“People are weird. Relationships are weird. Getting older and ‘having history’ is weird,” Peter says decisively, yet steadfastly deciding not to mention any names that begin with D or W. Then he abruptly switches train tracks. “I- I can get home from here.”

 

“You sure?” Logan (bless his old, understanding soul) asks, as if he hadn’t been quietly and attentively listening to whatever train wreck came out of Peter’s mouth for the past twenty minutes of walking.

 

“Yea, I- I’m good to walk, it’s,” Peter circles his thumb in the air vaguely, “it’s a spider thing – I’m good to walk from here. Thanks, though,” he elaborates as he extracts himself from Logan’s strong grasp. “Thanks for this whole night. Can’t remember if anybody’s asked me to ever ‘go drinking’ except for you. So this was. Enlightening. Fun.” Foot, meet mouth.

 

“Kid,” Logan says in that way of his that immediately makes Peter pay attention. “About that nut, Wilson…”

 

Oh, boy. Oh _no._ Is Peter ready for this conversation? Is Peter _sober_ enough to have this conversation? Also – he’s never been able to think ‘am I sober enough for this?’ and he’s currently a strange mix between giddy and guilty. Forgive me, Aunt May.

 

“You two will work it out,” Logan finishes with. The scant few words are spoken with utter certainty; Peter is deeply jealous.

 

“…How do you know?” Peter’s traitorous mouth speaks without his mind’s express permission, despite his body’s plans to just walk off until Logan is no longer in sight.

 

“I don’t,” is Logan’s banal reply. Then, “but do us all a favor, and talk to him soon. He’s real fuckin’ annoyin’ these past few weeks.”

 

Oh. So that’s why this conversation happened. Spider-Man is being unofficially assigned as ‘Deadpool’s keeper’ once again. Just like good old times.

 

Peter has the oddest urge to put a hand to his chest, gasp, and chastise Logan for such crass language (which the older man seems to try and curb when around Spider-Man for some unexplainable reason), but he’s not so sure that he’s ready to bet his safety on such a jest, so he holds it in.

 

“’Kay,” Peter responds with, but Logan is already walking away with his hands shoved into his (really cool) tan leather and white jacket.

 

Peter doesn’t understand how he ever doubted Logan’s ability to ride a motorcycle.

 

“This is familiar,” Peter gripes to the empty air, shivering lightly in the spot that Logan essentially abandoned him at (never-mind that it was his idea to say goodbye first.) He pulls his hands up in between his armpits for a bit of warmth. There really is nothing _to_ spandex, especially when you’re walking normally on the ground and not focused on the complicated mechanics of swinging.

 

Peter takes a couple of back alleys, which are (sadly) more familiar to him than the streets by now. He eventually rights himself in terms of where he is and begins the somewhat lengthy trek home, not willing to test whether or not he can swing without injuring himself just yet.

 

Unfortunately, being alone with himself for that long and trying to stave off the boredom and chill leaves him with not much to do but think.

 

And _think_ he does.

 

He thinks about Deadpool. Because _why should he ever trust himself?_ Especially during what could conceivably be his first time drunk.

 

“Frickheck… Flippin’ _Deadpool,”_ Peter grumbles, fighting off the urge to sneeze. Can having the physical _want_ for the weight of a pair of glasses on your nose cause you to sneeze? He’s going to have to remember this and experiment later… “Waffles… _Ugly_ laugh… _Stupid_ jokes. _Stupid_ Dead-Wilson- I mean Wadepool- I mean…”

 

Maybe he should stop talking to himself.

 

His foot hits the side of a trash can and sends something sprawling, disturbing a nest of rats that scatter and make him shriek and cling to the brick wall next to his head. A light turns on overhead, which has Peter scrambling for cover in the darkness like a spider skittering across the wall.

 

For some reason, his mind immediately jumps to blaming Deadpool once more, despite the ex-merc being on a mission outside of New York at the moment. Peter should know; Deadpool texted him updates every hour, on the hour, without fail for the past two days.

 

Like summoning the devil (which Peter finds to be a fully understandable comparison at the moment), his phone chimes with a message in that stupid default tone that he’s pretty sure SHIELD stole from some popular phone brand without giving the proper royalties.

 

Scandalous.

 

Peter fishes out his phone from his left wrist pocket and squints in the darkness, being blinded by its bright light.

 

One: it’s three a.m. How awful.

 

Two: Deadpool is trying to get him to choose their breakfast burrito for them, claiming that ‘it’s too early to be making such important, responsible decisions.’

 

Small flames of fury roll in Peter’s body as he crawls up the side of his rented building, phone clutched in one hand and making the task infinitely harder, but he isn’t willing to stop staring at the screen and subsequent message like it just murdered his mother.

 

Wow. You know Peter’s drunk when he starts making jokes like _that._

 

 _“Deadpool…”_ Peter growls uselessly into the air, hanging next to the unlocked window (one of many near his bedroom) like a dramatic painting… but, like, one with a _cellphone._

 

He considers chewing Deadpool out for texting him at 3 a.m., but it would be pointless since Deadpool texted him at 2 a.m., 1 a.m., 12 a.m., 11 p.m…. and, well, you get the picture.

 

Basically; Peter has no good reason to be annoyed with Deadpool at this present time, but his mind is acting like it’s on a Ferris wheel of _rage,_ and is grasping at straws to keep itself burning and alive.

 

…and then Peter forgets to duck, smacking his forehead against the top of the window pane, and nearly falls backwards to his doom three floors down.

 

“Oooh…” Peter moans, forcefully pitching himself forward so that he falls into the window instead of out. He’d never be able to live it down if his identity was found out because he _fell_ (and what kind of spider would he be if he did _that?_ ) from his own apartment window and died or something horribly hilarious like that.

 

As Peter’s practically crawling away from the window, hitting several hanging and potted plants on accident while he’s at it, stripping pieces of his suit off with little aching twinges that he didn’t notice forming on his way home, his phone does the wrong thing and vibrates again.

 

“Ugh!” Peter clenches his fists and brings the creaking device up to his face. “Would you… Just! Stop!”

 

‘is jalapeonos a good substitute for literally every other ingredient in a breakfast burrito or am I just too Hot for that?? ()()()() know you cant see this but i gotta’

 

Letting out an incomprehensible noise of rage and drunken foolishness, Peter opens up a new message and begins typing.

 

Feeling mighty smug and accomplished, Peter falls nearly naked into his heavenly soft bed (wondering why he’s never noticed how wonderful it is before) and is just about to hit send when his phone vibrates for a third damned time.

 

‘fine makin me type out these OLD SCHOOL emojis like a pleb. ;) ;) ;) there are you happy. its not like 4am over there is it?? time zones are the most confusing bit of science i have ever encountered, and ive encountered MYSELF’

 

“Fight me,” Peter growls at his phone, but then he gets a nefarious idea in his head to go the full nine yards. It has nothing to do with the little voice telling him nasty things. Nope.

 

Peter, feeling like he’s clipping angel’s wings while he’s at it, also adds a daring ‘fuck you’ to the end, hitting send moments before his head throbs warningly and he whimpers into his pillow, flinging his phone off and away somewhere into the depths of his open room.

 

It doesn’t vibrate again.

 

.

* * *

 

.

 

Peter wakes up somewhere around 7 a.m. with sunlight streaming through the slanted wall of windows connecting his ‘living room’ and his ‘bedroom’, which he stupidly forgot to cover up the night before. His head is doing this funny thing where it numbly throbs every few seconds, coupling with this dry tasting feeling in his mouth.

 

Also, Deadpool is climbing in his window.

 

Peter fights down a shriek. He doesn’t quite manage it.

 

“Do you wanna see the text you sent me?” Deadpool barks roughly, out of breath, right before they crash to the floor with an unconcerned _‘oof.’_ “I’m not sure if I’m hallucinating or not and SHIELD agents _refuse_ to give me the time of day. Also – do you know how weird it is to leave someplace when it’s 7 a.m. and come back someplace where it’s 7 a.m. _again?_ Time zones, man, I’m tellin’ ya’.”

 

“How did you get into my apartment,” Peter says stupidly, sitting up in bed and staring at how Deadpool stops to sniff loudly at his potted lilies.

 

“Through the window,” Deadpool responds simply. They’re trying to climb the wooden latticework that lines one side of Peter’s unofficial greenhouse.

 

“How did you _find_ my apartment,” Peter asks stupidly once again. His arms are beginning to shake from propping himself up for this long, so he swirls his legs to the side and sits up.

 

His heart constricts painfully. He’s only in his underwear right now, and being partially covered by white sheets does nothing to hide his bare face.

 

“Take a gander, _brunette,”_ Deadpool makes an annoying noise before tossing their expensive looking phone towards Peter on the bed, who catches it without looking away. “And before you start yellin’ and tellin’ me it’s ‘all your fault, you big, taco chomping brute’ like some kind’a morally obligated _weenie,_ just wanna let you know… That I am _seriously jealous_ of that _adorable mole_ you have on your left shoulder.”

 

Gripping his left shoulder aimlessly with a hand, Peter glares at Deadpool (who only puts their hands up and walks brazenly to where the kitchen is) and then begins perusing the messages of the phone.

 

He tries not to snoop, but it’s odd seeing Deadpool of all people have so many contacts. Their first one is, coincidentally, ‘Spider-Man’, and Peter opens it.

 

His mouth automatically gapes at what he sees.

 

 **Spider-Man:** [ Insert address into GPS?] fuck me

 

Peter wheezes out a breath so loud and distressed that Deadpool pokes their head around the corner into the bedroom/living room corner.

 

“I- It was after I hit my head,” Peter realizes with a start, dropping the phone to the bed and burying his face into his hands. “Oh, you human disaster... _Why?”_

Why? Oh, Peter can probably tell you why. He can tell anybody why, including himself.

 

Spider-Man got drunk. Full on shit-faced.

 

This is obviously the world’s punishment.

 

Deadpool stomps over to the bed and looks down at him with a slightly scarily unreadable mien. “You only texted me because you hit your head?” They wheeze. “I’ll take it.”

 

Because _of course._

 

“I- I- I- didn’t mean to, to send you _that,”_ Peter immediately tries to defend, eyes flicking between Deadpool’s masked face and the incriminating evidence of the phone. One hand comes up to tug harshly at his hair. “I was drunk. I’m drunk. No, wait,” he squints at the far wall in confusion. “I’m- am I hungover?” It would explain a few things. “Anyway – I meant to send ‘fight me’… I think? It was just a bad decision, _okay?_ I’m full of those.”

 

“You and me bo- wait, _drunk?”_ Deadpool parrots back, because apparently that’s the only thing they heard out of that entire rambling spiel. “As in, alcohol drunk? Drinking drunk? Bar drunk??? Who in the world got you _drunk?”_

“Wolverine,” Peter automatically responds, then shakes his head. “What am I saying… You need to leave, like, now.”

 

Deadpool puts their hands up in defense and their neck practically disappears into their chin as they make an indecipherable noise. “Sure, fine, I’ll skedaddle. I left in the middle of a mission anyway.”

 

“What- why did you leave if you were in the middle of a mission?” Peter asks, trying to stand up from the bed before falling back over with a hand placed dizzily to his head. “Wow. Do I have a concussion?” He speaks out loud, because he apparently is still suffering from no brain filter.

 

And, you know… a possible half-healed concussion.

 

“Listen, sweetheart,” Deadpool says in a way that makes Peter bristle. It’s weird being without his mask. It’s weird being Peter Parker in front of Deadpool in general. “When Spider-Man texts you what appears to be his address and an honest to piss, goddamn _booty call –“_

 

“It wasn’t a booty call it was a _mistake –“_

 

“That’s what they always say,” Deadpool mumbles back, hands on their hips. “Anyway – you drop your shit and you _book it_ to that address, ya’ feel me? Once in a lifetime opportunity, on a platter, in a an ugly, post-ritsy style hipster apartment.”

 

With that bit of harrowing information, Deadpool gives the shell-shocked person on the bed some spectacularly unhelpful jazz hands and starts to crawl out the window again.

 

“Wait!” Peter calls. Deadpool barely slows down. “Just, hold on! How did you even know which window to come in?”

 

“Uh, you left it open?” Deadpool responds with a head roll. “Y’know, you’re lucky that I did come by. Some mook could’a snuck in here and done away with you in the middle of your _siesta.”_

 

“You know what,” Peter says drolly. “I changed my mind. Please leave immediately.”

 

Deadpool’s stupid _“hyuk hyuk”_ as they freefall from the window will haunt Peter to his grave. He’s not even sure if he’s being dramatic this time or not.

 

.

* * *

 

.

 

He’s shaken awake one day to see Deadpool standing over him with no mask and a feral-like grin on their face.

 

“Peter,” they said with an inflection given to only a truly thirsty man having his first drink of water in years. “Peter Parker.”

 

Peter, having been told that he’s a smart person on at least two separate occasions, was instantly afraid for his life.

 

Thus opening a new chapter in their ‘relationship.’

 

However, despite Peter walking on eggshells for the next few weeks, nothing much happens except the sudden influx of Deadpool sightings. And ‘Wade Wilson’ sightings, since apparently there’s a difference.

 

“I’m Deadpool,” says Deadpool one day, popping up out of nowhere while Peter is in the middle of watering his plants. He doesn’t shriek this time, but he does accidentally toss his watering can across the room.

 

Then, unexpectedly, Deadpool takes off their mask in one quick movement, brandishing red and scarred skin with a happy smile. “And _I’m_ Wade Wilson!”

 

“…All you did was change your voice,” Peter notes. He doesn’t _complain,_ no matter how ‘Wade’ teases him for it later. “And how did you get in here this time? I locked the window!”

 

Deadpool – sorry, _Wade_ scoffs. “You didn’t lock the _door_ though. Honestly, honey, get with the program.”

 

Peter smacks himself in the face.

 

“So, do you like… Live alone?” Wade asks in that trademark leer as they nosily trail after Peter, who goes to retrieve his fallen watering can.

 

“Uh, kinda?” Peter answers, making a face before bending and picking up the can. He needs to mop up the water all over the floor… “Every Tuesday and Thursday, some hoity-toity art studio rents the bottom floors out. Then on Saturdays the LARPers invade.”

 

“LARPers?” Wade repeats with some excitement. “Are you serious? You’ve got a bunch of prissy artists running around –“

 

“They’re not that bad,” Peter, a photographer, defends.

 

“— and then a whole gaggle of nerds with weapons –“

 

“They’re not that- oh, whatever,” Peter, a certified nerd (his college degree and small collection of comics and video games says so), attempts to defend once more, only to get irritated and move towards the kitchen sink. As he’s filling up the can _again_ (and ignoring Wade’s chatter), he gets an idea.

 

And, no, it won’t be anything like his _last_ idea.

 

“If you’re going to bother me like this, then why don’t you make yourself useful,” Peter comments as he tosses a clean hand towel onto Wade’s head, “and clean up the water you made me spill.”

 

 _“’Clean up the water you made me spill’,”_ Wade mocks in a tiny voice instead of responding with a ‘yes’ or a ‘I’m going to murder you for telling me to do something’, but goes to do as they’re told.

 

Peter smirks at their back with winning bells chiming in his head.

 

As long as he can keep Wade from spilling his identity ( _especially_ to SHIELD) and from killing him in his sleep, everything could be just fine like this…

 

.

* * *

 

.

 

Everything is not fine and Peter regrets ever thinking that.

 

“Wade…” Peter moans, quilt slung over his shoulders as he tiredly rubs at his face. He just shuffled his way into the kitchen because somebody (three guesses as to who) was in there banging around and making a bunch of noise. “Just because you can get into my house at any time doesn’t mean you should.”

 

“That is no way to thank a man for making their honey some hart and healthy breakfast!” Wade admonishes, shuffling something around in the lightly sizzling pan placed over the stove.

 

Peter’s eyes momentarily bug out of his head, his entire body freezing. “You didn’t actually put a heart in there, did you?”

 

Don’t ask why Peter’s suspicious of this scenario, specifically – he doesn’t have answers.

 

“Not for my Petey-pie I didn’t,” Wade answers, abandoning the cooking meal in order to swoop down upon the tired human arachnid like a frilly bird of prey. They’re wearing what appears to be a homemade apron. “Now sit, sit! I know you got a _thingamajig_ to do early today, like the good, hardworking Samaritan you are –“

 

“When did we get a table,” Peter mumbles, not fully aware of the implications of what he just said.

 

“…That doesn’t matter,” Wade says in a voice that makes it seem like, yes, it _does_ matter. “What matters right now is that you stuff these bodacious blueberry BAM-cakes into your pretty little mouth and head off to…” They circle their hand in the air, “whatever it is you said you was doin’.”

 

Peter squints. “I thought you just said you remembered what I was doing?”

 

“Semantics,” Wade replies, dancing off to the stove, memory problems and lace and all. “Open up, sugar butt.”

 

“That didn’t rhym- _Ooooh…”_ Peter ‘ah’s and ‘wow’s at the magnificent plate placed in front of him on the mysterious table (seriously, this thing wasn’t here yesterday.) A fork is nudged into his lax hand and he moves on auto pilot, spearing a piece of (pre-cut!!! Wow, it’s, like, at least three-star service in here) pancake before slipping it into his mouth.

 

…Oh, holy cow.

 

“What the fruitcake?” Peter exclaims, looking down at his pancake like it holds the wonders of the world.

 

“Um, no?” Wade shakes their head minutely, somewhat offended looking as they put their hands on their hips. “It’s a pancake. _With_ fruit. I made it with love, and joy, and how tired _are_ you right now?”

 

Instead of answering, Peter props his head up on one hand and closes his eyes, savoring another bite. A burst of hot, gooey blueberry innards bursts on his tongue and his toes curl and crack in response.

 

“I don’t know why I keep forgetting how good your food is,” Peter mumbles absentmindedly. And then, even more bereft of logic, says “Marry me,” in a dreamy tone. He isn’t awake enough to understand who or what he’s saying that to, he just knows that it’s 100% from the heart and soul.

 

He is _very_ tired right now.

 

Wade makes a funny noise akin to a dying bird from behind him. He ignores it, stifling any concerning thoughts with another bite of heavenly fluffy bread and warm fruit.

 

Peter is utterly content (if a little bit yawn-y) as he thanks Wade for the food (he wasn’t raised in a barn after all) and makes his way towards the early morning assist he signed up for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so here's the _real_ 'domestic spideypool.' just because they live together in [must make good choices for a living](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7516936/chapters/17086174) doesn't mean that they're automatically in love, or willing to work on that love. These two here, however, have history. also wade tends to woo more with baked goods and TLC now than with bloody postcards and severed body parts, like he did in the past (a bad time to be spider-man, i assure you.)
> 
> in my defense, unrealized love and exhaustion are very mind-altering


End file.
